Shadows of the Timeless Night
by CottageWeavers
Summary: This story is based on the second prophecy of Mandos as mentioned in  The Shaping of Middleearth . What will happen when Morgoth breaks the Doors of Night shortly after Sauron has been defeated?
1. Foreword

**Disclaimer:** This story is written by group of people and it'll be our first attempt on something like that. We don't own Tolkien's characters (obviously) and don't make any money from it.

** Foreword **

This story is based on the second prophecy of Mandos as mentioned in The Shaping of Middle-earth

_Thus spake the prophecy of Mandos, which he declared in Valmar at the judgement of the Gods, and the rumour of it was whispered among all the Elves of the West: when the world is old and the Powers grow weary, then Morgoth shall come back through the Door out of the Timeless Night; and he shall destroy the Sun and the Moon, but Earendel shall come upon him as a white flame and drive him from the airs. Then shall the last battle be gathered on the fields of Valinor. In that day Tulkas shall strive with Melko, and on his right shall stand Fionwe and on his left Turin Turambar, son of Hurin, Conqueror of Fate; and it shall be the black sword of Turin that deals unto Melko his death and final end; and so shall the Children of Hurin and all men be avenged._

The Silmarillion as J. R. R. Tolkien originally wrote it ends with a prophecy by Mandos about the Dagor Dagorath, often referred to as "The End". The remaining clue to this prophecy is found at the end of Akallabêth, where "Ar-Pharazôn and his mortal warriors who had set foot on Aman were buried by falling hills, imprisoned in the Caves of the Forgotten until the "Last Battle and Day of Doom".

But that's the legends and this will be our spin on it. We have also taken the liberty of referencing the Book of lost Tales as well as other theories from several discussion boards.


	2. Prologue

** Prologue **

The Age of the Elves is passing. The road to mankind has been paved, but man is young and untried. He is hesitant in his steps, young and lacking in confidence. He hears the stories and the legends and he dreams the dreams of heroes, elves, dwarves, hobbits and wizards of wars long since passed.

He has no idea that he is about to witness history in the making, for history always repeats itself and there will always be heroes... time and fate have deemed it so.

One young hero of men sits alone and contemplates The "Lost Tales of Elfinesse" which his father read to him as a child. A wondrous and magical place that stirs his heart. The Lonely Isle where Eriol the Mariner journeyed; where stands a lonely cottage; a place he always felt a kinship with while growing up. It was this curiosity that overcame Eldarion Telcontar, son of Arwen and Aragorn II, to dare to peer within the depths of the palantir upon waking from a dream...it was this curiosity that would open a new chapter in the history of the age of Men and what he saw would change the course of all that was to come after his age, burnt to memory, to heart and to soul forever after...The Dagor Dagorath.

_Much has happened since Eru Iluvatar created the world, since the day he called the Valar to sing him a mighty song. From this song arose the vision of a world with green lands and children to live and play there in peace. Through his will this world came into being and we, the Valar, descended into it to care and nurture, to make it a paradise for those that inhabited it._

But was this Eru's true will? You see the vision became marred by the one who could have been the mightiest of us all. His greed and his burning ambition to shape everything after his own will destroyed the dreams of "us", those who followed Eru's path.

The story of Melkor's rise and downfall is a long and tragic one and much has been told elsewhere. It brought forth heroes and wars, friendships and treacheries. In the end the evil had to be defeated and cast from the confines of the world but Arda, the place we intended to make a paradise has been tainted by his deeds and his evil seed still lingers, bearing fruit. He has been banished from this world, cast through 'the door of night' but legend has it Morgoth will return and when that time comes the future of mankind is less clear. His path is paved in gray, riddled with thorns of greed and tangled amidst uncertainty.

Four decades have passed now since the downfall of the mightiest of Melkor's servants and they have passed mainly in peace and joy. The age of Men has begun and we, the Valar have grown weary. Arda is theirs now and we should not interfere in their affairs any longer. In the great war 'the Children of Iluvatar' have proved themselves worthy and restored the Kingdom of old to its former glory. There is nothing left for us to do but to trust in their strength and will but we know from experience that they will need guidance.

When Sauron rose and Middle-earth fell under his fear and terror we sent forth the Istari, those of equal power to him to assist the Children in their fight. So now it shall fall upon us to help them once again in these dark times that have yet to come. 

Our last task ... to sow hope and courage in the hearts of Men. We cannot directly interfere but we can set the stage for hope. 

There are those who have been wronged in life, died before their time, a direct result of Melkor's malice. There are those who fought the evil and the darkness that is his. These are the heroes of old and they live on in the tales and legends which made them immortal. They deserve a second chance to redeem the past.

**For Legend has it that on his return there will be one last battle that reveals the fate of Arda and the heroes of old will come back to take revenge for his evil deeds ...**

_"I amar prestar aen …"_

The world is changing ... again 


	3. Melkor's Escape

To come ..


	4. The Hall of Feasts

**Year 30 of the Fourth Age: Gondor**

"Tell me more My Lord, about Mar Vanwe Tyalieva, the legend and  
Eriol the Mariner."

Eldarion picked at his stew, it was cold. The grease had coagulated

leaving a thin layer of slime on top but the lanky ten year old with a tuft of tousled brown locks spilling over his brow wasn't hungry, he couldn't get the tale out of his head. His father, the King of Gondor told the best stories ever.

"No need for formalities son, no one's paying us any mind." King Elessar tapped his used pipe ash into the small bowl beside the remnants of a well demolished stew bowl and refilled it with a fresh batch of Old Toby. It was the best tobacco in the land. The hobbits knew well how to harvest a proper pipe weed.

He stood, struck a thin stick into the crackling fire, re-lit his pipe and returned to the table. None truly understood why he chose to eat in a common feasting Hall whenever he got the chance rather than enjoying the formal dining room at Minas Tirith. He glanced about Merethrond and smiled. The Hall of Feasts was full this night and the idea of retelling the tales to his son again sat well with a full belly and a warm, reflective state of mind. He missed Arwen but she was still at Lake Evendim. Aragorn - as he was also known - felt the need to return to Gondor when word from Faramir arrived that Eldarion was troubled; his sleep disturbed by dreadful night terrors. His queen was not herself of late either, claiming she sensed changes on the wind.

His thoughts turned to the Prancing Pony, how many years had passed since meeting Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin for the first time? He couldn't recall but it seemed like only yesterday. Aragorn was now clothed in a similar fashion, traveling about in royal garb was a necessity but he preferred the guise of ranger. There were times when he missed the old days and adventure. It was a freedom of existence that still called to him even if he was content. 

"But I've already told you hundreds of times, is this why you're having nightmares Eldarion?"

"No Poppa but I keep dreaming about the Dark Lord, he will return, you said so yourself." Eldarion shivered. "Can you ever sense him? I do all the time."

Aragorn shrugged with indifference, unwilling to let his son know that the thought did occur to him, often. "When I am king I worry about other things but when I'm comfortable in my old boots, like here and now I suppose I sense him a little. It's like ghosts, sometimes you can't shake them." He had no intention of retelling the legend before his son slept. "We shouldn't talk about that tonight, not when you're having bad dreams. The tale of Eriol the Mariner will have to do."

Eldarion had the storybook but he liked to hear his father tell it. It sounded real the way his voice changed and his eyes lit up, almost like he was there and living it.

To say that a child ever idolized his sire more would be an understatement, Eldarion worshiped his father. The ten year old wished Faramir hadn't told his dad about the dreams. After all, they were just dreams weren't they? He didn't like to be coddled and worried over: he was nearly a man. The prospect of hearing about Eriol the Mariner cheered him immensely.

He would have to be a large man to make such a journey: who knew what dangers he would have faced? And he would still have to have been very smart to find his way to secret worlds too. As Eldarion pondered the mariner's physical proportions, a tall man at the bar turned and winked at him. _'Just like him!'_, the thought flitted through his mind.

Eldarion grinned from ear to ear. The man's crimson hair shone like fire in the candlelight and his sun bronzed skin reminded him of a sailor. The man was huge, taller than an elf, his frame near filling that portion of the room.

Ælfwine had unwittingly overheard the conversation between father and son, his meal having settled uneasily in a churning stomach from the long exhausting journey. The tension creasing his weathered brow lifted at the sight of the boy. The pensive frown shaping his wind burned lips eased considerably and his features brightened. Blue eyes twinkled as he winked at the boy who returned a cheerful grin.

Salty air and scorching sun had marked a once smooth and pale complexion. He was a seafarer and a wanderer by choice but it was music and song that stirred him most of all. The unlikely bard was deeply tanned with a leathery hide and stood well over six feet tall. On one burly shoulder a wide leather strap supported a finely crafted mandolin. Ælfwine studied the father. A great king of a great age. The man commanded attention.

Aragorn leaned forward to refill his tankard, the smooth dark hair framing his noble face ruffled as a gust of wind flooded the great hall and the front door flew open on its hinges with a thunderous bang. A hunched frame filled the doorway. Clad in flowing robes of green the stranger clung to a sturdy walking stick. His steps were slow and ungainly, the pronounced limp - painful to watch.

Ælfwine turned away with a scowl at the ominous entrance. He only knew of one so eager and skillfully adept at killing a mood.

Eldarion shivered as he candles flickered and a grizzled old man came into view, one of his eyes was cloudy and colorless. Someone closed the tavern door but his gaze was transfixed on the old man. His hair flowed in long gray waves well below his shoulders and his beard was long and scraggly. He was coming towards them and something about him made Eldarion's skin crawl. Relief only came when he sat down with some difficulty at a nearby table.

Imrahil Manveru didn't need to scan the common room to know who was present. The king, his son and one other were all that concerned him. He tried to mask his rage hating the disguise he was forced to suffer since breaking the chains which bound him for two ages of imprisonment. As an old blind man he would be underestimated. The dark Lord tasted freedom again, sweet revenge in the form of another fall from grace.

He was eager with anticipation but disdain for the warm flesh pulsing with mortal blood left him in foul temper and now he was forced to endure the presence of a long time enemy in the guise of a pretty bard who wasted no time infiltrating his territory. After seating himself with forced difficulty he finally turned to the familiar face hovering close to the King and his son - the seafarer's attempt to be inconspicuous was an obvious failure. The careless fool likely wished to repair the grievous oversight of his ancestor before it was too late.

It mattered not, he expected nothing less having taken previous measures to counter the interference. Why not let the man enjoy a temporary reprise before his absolute destruction.

A serving girl approached Imrahil with trepidation, he could smell the fear and distaste oozing from every pore with each slow step she took towards him.

"What can I get you sir? The stew is gone, we still have cold cheese and meats and there is fresh bread in abundance." The softness of her voice was pleasing but the underlying tone unsettled him.

_Liar, you lie little witch! You want me gone from this place._ His thoughts were his own but there was a day when they were clear to anyone he encountered. It would take time but the dark Lord was patient.

The disguise melted away before her eyes and a glimpse of dark beauty unlike none Miriel ever witnessed before left her senses elated. Her heart screamed in protest as desire flooded her veins. She felt she should know him, that his name would strike fear into the lesser beings of Arda but her thoughts were soon tumbling away in confusion.

"You will bring me stew Miriel, fresh bread and a tankard of your finest ale then you will prepare me a room where you will serve me, willingly for the entire duration of my stay, do you understand girl?" 

Miriel's blue eyes opened wide as if witnessing some unseen terror. In a far detached corner of her mind a voice screamed for her to flee, to run as fast and far as she could. Unable to move she could only stare blankly, the two of them frozen in time.

His eyes bore into hers as if reading everything, discovering all there was to know about her. The power his gaze commanded was irresistible and terrifying. Her eyes traveled the length of him and the fear diminished leaving an aching instinct to please in its wake.

She resisted the temptation to run her trembling fingers over the curves of his finely chiseled face. Her taut posture relaxed, a seductive smile playing on full lips as she curtsied, her voice husky and low in her throat "As you wish M'Lord. Your meal will be served in an instant and while you eat, I will take care of your room... and everything else you need."

Her skirts rustled as she hurried off, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glazed over. She forgot everything else as she hurried to the kitchens. Miri's only focus was carrying out his orders.

Imrahil smiled, pleased with his progress but the mariner he knew as his enemy was a relentless thorn who had the audacity of aiming a pleasant smile in his direction with an acknowledging nod.

Ælfwine saw through the disguise, sensing the evil emanating from across the room but the world of Men was his domain and even ground made for an even battlefield. He simply smiled and nodded at the old man, regained his good cheer and approached the table of King Elessar and his son. 

"Aye little Prince," Ælfwine dipped slightly in the appropriate greeting, "the tale of Eriol the Mariner is an excellent choice. Forgive me, I couldn't help but overhear and it happens that this be one of my favorite tales of all time." He winked at the rosy cheeked boy, a twinkle of excitement in his clear blue eyes. "I was about to share my version with the patrons but I wouldn't want to overstep His Grace if you wish to share it in my stead."

Waiting for Response 

Ælfwine took center stage in the Feasting Hall. All ears were suddenly transfixed on the resonant baritone filtering the air with a new form of power. The power of song.

_On sundering seas with tumultuous tide  
A tall ship was spotted in effortless glide  
Having sailed from the West into waters unknown  
By merciless currents...the tall ship was thrown_

There are reasons they say with a hint of a smile  
This tall ship was lost to the lonely isles  
When a wanderer came through the twilight of mist  
With a thirst for the truth that these isles did exist

There were legends long told by the wisest of men  
That magic had lived and would so again  
The elves were now fleeting, the Gods - growing dark  
The world was wide open for men to embark

But they needed the key to unlock the chest  
They needed a way to follow the quest  
Thus the Star of Eärendil shined brightly this night  
It altered the course of Eriol's plight

The mariner found, when he took to the helm  
Tol Eressëa bound… a long blessed realm  
A moment of victory was Eriol's gift  
For long had he traveled...a pawn in the drift

A storm rocked the ship as they sighted the isles  
Then a wave took them down amidst awestruck smiles

The mariner woke on a curious shore  
Alone and confused by the sea's mournful roar

The island was empty...bereft in the night  
But a campfire glowed with an ominous light.  
It revealed an ancient and wizened old man  
Whose eyes held more depth than the oceans or sand

He was told many tales by the light of the fire  
Each story enraptured, enlightened...inspired  
With his new knowledge his fears were set free  
And with the new dawn came a ship from the sea

The melody was light and crisp, layered with the stormy melancholy of the seas and the haunting deep of the oceans. The seafaring bard paused to sip his wine and read his audience. 


	5. The Weaver

**The Weaver**

A pall of melancholy hangs on the air. The chambers are cold and bare, instilled by an eerie silence and pale light - neither night nor day. Time holds little meaning here. It is said those who dwell within are judged by what they have done or failed to do in their lifetimes and that Mandos knows all - sees everything. To most he appears hard-hearted and cruel but to his spouse Vairë, Mandos is fair and wise. He reconciles and negotiates with strong will and sound judgment and in the end he is a bringer of peace.

Vairë adorns the Halls with woven tapestries she makes with fleet and nimble hands, each one holds a memory that has been precisely related to her. She is the Weaver, the one who listens with an open mind which is free of judgment.

Those who remain behind on Middle-earth suffer losses as do those unfortunate enough to find their way into the Halls of Waiting. Most were never ready to leave. They were ripped away from those they loved too early, their lives unfinished and tragically incomplete. Vairë listened to all their tales while Niënna tried to ease their pains and sorrows. All of these memories had been woven into tapestries adorning the stark, foreboding walls. They showed fierce battles and great feasts, tragic tales of romance, treacheries and victories.

Some were bright, the colors of rainbows glittering in the sunlight while others were dark and filled with shadows - devoid of beauty. They were lost memories, seemingly insignificant events of the past but the tapestry she was currently crafting would eventually reveal the future and glorious new possibilities.

Small hands the color of milk worked deftly. Her eyes, dark and almond shaped, were focused and her brow puckered in concentration as the thread and needle danced from slender fingertips. An alluring tapestry grew beneath her skills. A great Hall where laughter and merriment prevailed took shape. She had woven a similar tapestry before and remembered it well. The Hall of Play Regained filled the tiny cottage with life and hope. Many of these same souls were released here long ago to start a new life, devoid of the memories and guilt weighing them down in former lives.

In that tapestry these Halls were filled with little heads raised in song, bowed together in secret whisperings or shaking with undimmed laughter. They played together, sharing joys and simple pleasures for there was never sorrow. The fire crackling in the hearth was warm with bright glowing embers and the rooms permeated a mixture of burning wood and savory aromas from the cottage garden or the cozy kitchen. Vaire recalled it while contemplating this new endeavor. It currently adorned the main hall at Mar Vanwe Tyaliéva (The Cottage of Lost Play) it was and still is a precious source of pride to those that dwell within.

She could still picture it in her mind's eye as if it were only yesterday.

A dark haired boy with a mischievous smile towered over a tiny flaxen haired angel while they imagined the paths they would walk together. The small fingers of another snatched away a toy, a tug-of war ensued and black eyes sparkled from a cherubic little face with rosy cheeks and dirty nose. Others ran along the beach with pails of sand or made chains of flowers in a colorful meadow. Still more climbed trees that lined the path of Olorë Malle ambushing one group or another as they passed beneath.

They had grown with time under Vaire and Lindo's care, though not as fast as children on earth grew. Those who came to the cottage in their dreams to play with them had changed and long since found adulthood before they moved on or withered away. These children and the tapestry were a secret Manwë was unaware of. Only Iluvatar, Mandos and Vairë the Weaver knew of their existence. They were expected to participate in The Dagor Dagorath, the prophecy her spouse had spoken of so long ago.

Vairë refocused on the current tapestry. As these children reached adulthood they had regained some memories of their former lives. Heroes of times long gone, free of the doom and tragedy that followed them before. For now they enjoyed the distraction this place offered and the company of like-minded spirits. They did not know it yet but they were here for a purpose; heroes of times long gone, unsure of what future lay before them. Vairë too was in the dark but she looked forward to how this tapestry might unfold.

Beneath the intricate threads figures began to come alive, she could feel them breathing through the cloth in her hands. The laughter and sadness in their souls. Vairë knew them all well; their hopes, their dreams and their sorrows.

Midnight black floss flowed freely. Ribbons of black hair fell in smooth contours along the curve of Haleth Haladin's back. She sat in deep contemplation upon a stone by the lake outside the Hall. Annoyance and amusement riddled a high brow which supported thinly arched brows and eyes the color of polished sandalwood, but for once she was feeling tolerably clean. She had been physically forced to take a bath in this lake.

Vairë smiled softly, her fingers weaving the man who was responsible for this. She knew him well this Druedain, a Ranger and Shaman, well knowledgeable and full of mischief. He was traveling to places no mortal man could possibly reach. It was fitting that these two would cross paths this way for Haleth was lost in time; fixated on the past with no clear vision towards tomorrow. She had always been a loner - forced to fend for herself and her people and even though she was surrounded by other children - both older and younger - Haleth stood apart and alone as if she never truly belonged.

It was rumored the Dain was a seer and carried with him a shard of some lost palantir which he used to channel, manipulate and travel. A dark cloud followed him. Vairë sensed his road was short, shrouded in pain and paved with despair. With her stitchings complete the tapestry revealed the dark haired ranger surrounded by an aura of magenta. He stood beneath a mist glancing back in sorrow as the small girl child now woman grown, Haleth Haladin combed unruly tangles from her hair.

A new figure appeared under Vairës skilled fingers; a tall and slender elf with long, silvery hair. A bird circled above her and they appeared to speak to one another. She was strong and wise, her purpose hidden from Vairë who knew her not but that she bore a famous name, Galadriel.

The wind picked up outside as white threads extended into a mysterious mist. One who dared to look closely might see a woman woven into the shadows. Everything about her was warm, Vairë could almost hear her soothing voice. The shaman's mother was a remarkable person and likely the only one who's words he ever heeded, she always came to him in visions.

Azar had a special place in the Halls of Waiting for all she endured in her fight against the evil. Her heart was still bound to the living, to the son she'd left behind and she would never find peace before he did. A glowing pouch slipped from her fragile fingers to land beside the second rendering of the Druedain, now in fallen form. His olive eyes closed, his body lifeless, oblivious to anything around him. It was a mighty present and one he should use wisely.

The motif changed into swirling details of a crowded city, Vairë's fingers moved rapidly as they followed the disturbed, wild eyed dark haired man through the crowded city streets. The sky was darkening with evil clouds as he followed or searched frantically for someone or something he could not possibly quite reach.

Túrin Turambar was a master of doom and by doom mastered. His life was one of the most tragic tales among Vairë's tapestries. He was still haunted by grief and filled with guilt and reproach, blaming himself for all consequences suffered unjustly in life. Melkor destroyed him and his family and the Valar were unable to interfere directly.

As he passed various buildings, numerous shades of gray dappled the streets and dwellings until Túrin finally found himself standing in front of the Halls. His handsome features were troubled, fearful. They glowed in the soft light from the many candles burning within that spilled out through the windows. Upon entering the great Halls his eyes roamed the present crowd, observing yet lingering nowhere until he found the tall elf sitting at a table near the fireplace. Beleg Strongbow's ancient face was flawless, his blue eyes usually sparkling with mirth were filled with obvious concern for his friend as he acknowledges his entrance.

White as snow was the thread Vairë used to weave Aredhel's dress. The white Lady of the Noldor was of striking appearance, beautiful, graceful and rare, who easily captured the eyes of those present and arriving. Even Eöl, the dark elf and his ever steadfast companion Telchar couldn't resist to acknowledge.

Vairë smiled seeing that the bonds formed during their lives in Middle-earth continued to exist even through death and rebirth. They didn't know about it but they could feel it nonetheless, unwittingly searching for each others company.

Beleg's laughter was a warm, rich sound which resounded like music from the stony walls, mingling with the dwarves guffaw. It was a merry company and more figures appeared under Vairë's slender fingers, occupying the tables within the Halls. Most of them would not have met in their lifetime but here in this magical place they could talk and idle away the time.

As children they had played side by side; Elves, Human, Halflings, they all were children of Ilúvatar and within the Cottage they all were alike, regardless of their social positions. Though nowadays the dreams of mankind were troubled and only a few still found their way into the Halls of Play Regained.

Watching through her web Vairë could feel their sorrows and the comfort they found within these walls. Absentmindedly Vairë reached for the fiery threads to weave Xanthe's hair. She was one of those who came here searching, wandering souls, unable to cope with tragic events from their past.

The warm sheen surrounding the group couldn't reach through the aura of sadness Túrin had wrapped around himself. Lines of sorrow were deeply woven into his face, mirroring the weariness that held him captive. A single tear formed in Vairë's eye when she saw him leaving the Hall quietly, sensed that he needed time for him alone. He was not as powerful as he used to be, with no prospect to what a new day might hold for him. His head buried in his hands he did not see the intriguing figure climbing the stairs he was sitting on until she stood in front of him. She came from a different world and even her threads told Vairë nothing about this woman, her thoughts and emotions hidden from the Weaver.

Vairë's features darkened as the first hint of a shadow crossed her tapestry. The thread in her fingers grew cold with the man appearing and she shivered slightly. "Who are you ?" the Weaver murmured. She saw, though not with her eyes, but with her weavers mind that there was darkness inside him and a cold even the warmth of Ilmarë's presence couldn't ease.

When those present in the Hall had been just children Ilmarë had come often to this place, soothing them with the warmth and light that was her power. Vairë's slender fingers caressed the golden streaks in the hair of Varda's _protégé_, feeling the conflict of emotions within her. Marë was weary and tired, haunted by nightmares and a real threat she could not conceive. Darkness always drew her, as it had drawn Varda, a fateful trait that could easily destroy her, destroy them both.

Chestnut threads formed ringlets of hair framing a familiar face and green eyes sparkled with mischief and curiosity. Carefree and sometimes reckless Aithne was a symbol for everything good in this world. Vairë stopped weaving, her fingers trembling slightly. Aule's and Yavana's daughter shouldn't be in this place and Eru alone knew how she'd found the way. Ollorë Malle was hidden from all travelers journeying from the east, the Cottage a secret place that could only be reached in dreams.

Aithne's small hand reached out, steadying the old man she helped climbing the stairs. Despite his limp and his obvious frailness this Imrahil was a commanding figure, a hulk of a man with a laugh that betrayed his poor appearance. He scanned the room and white teeth flashed in a smile that didn't reach the clouded lens of his eye as he lifted a surprised brow.

An evil atmosphere emanated from the old man and a sense of foreboding swept through Vairë. Her instincts warned her that something evil was about to happen, but she didn't know what caused the sensation. Her fingers worked of their own accord, weaving the contours of a gray veiled Lady watching the odd pair from the shadows. Melancholy and sadness wove a dark aura around her, pierced by the light of some stronger power within her.

Anger and hatred surrounded Imrahil in dark, grotesque colors, he could not hide from the Weaver's steady gaze as he sat back, cradling his tankard in his massive hands and sipped, staring at the veiled woman. They seemed to be having a silent conversation, unspoken words hanging in the air between them like a black cloud.

A cold, dark hand clutched at Vairë's heart and her eyes narrowed as she became conscious to the silence and darkness that suddenly enveloped Aithne's image. The old man had disappeared, changed into a haunting illusion of evil that now roamed about her and a gripping sense of doom pierced the Weaver's fears. Vairë felt the soft texture of the strands of her weave as they passed through her fingers, closing her eyes as she sensed what they had to tell her. The answer struck her and sorrow stabbed her in the gut with a stinging pain, as the Lady's veil hit the floor.

The threads tumbled to the ground as the Weaver abandoned her work, running down the stairs to search for Mandos, everything surrounding her in a blur.


End file.
